Page 32 of Unholy Union
He stops in front of the bed where he can tower over me. Only a few inches separate us, hot energy pulsing in the space in between.
Heart thudding hard in my chest and cheeks inflamed, I swallow against the tide of lust rising up inside me. When I speak, my voice quivers slightly.
“Afraid you can’t handle an experienced woman, Cato?” I ask, tilting my chin.
His hand snaps out and clamps shut on my throat, silencing any further disobedient words from me.
“Trust me, principessa,” he hisses, eyes flashing dangerously. “I can handle you. But when a man is told he’s marrying a darling angel and she turns out to be a fucking cock-milking succubus, he has questions.”
More heat burns through me. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted or some mix of both. I swallow, my pulse thrumming against the wide palm of his hand.
“Did you expect a river of tears and blood my first time?” I mutter. “What if I told you some women’s hymen break before they’ve ever had sex? I grew up taking riding and dance lessons, you know.”
“What if I told you it doesn’t matter either way?” he asks, giving my throat a light squeeze. He shifts even closer, bowing his head until his face hovers directly above mine, our faces inches apart. “You’re my wife now, Sabrina. I’ll turn you into my own dirty little whore regardless of who has—or hasn’t—had you before me. All your holes are mine to be used in any way I see fit. And you’re going to learn to accept it. Maybe even crave it once I’m through with you.”
He swoops down, his warm tongue swiping at my parted lips like an animal.
“That starts with you in my bed every night where you belong.”
Then his hand is gone from my throat and he’s turning and walking away.
I’m left speechless, thrown off by how easily my husband disarms me. It’s clear throwing tantrums and openly defying Cato does nothing to change the situation. It doesn’t even leave a chink in his armor.
If I’m going to make his life miserable—if I’m going to get revenge for Leo—then I’ll have to be a lot cleverer. I’ll have to learn how totrulyget under his skin…
A week into this marriage, and I haven’t killed anyone yet. It’s not for a lack of trying. Ididpull a knife on my husband on our wedding night, thinking I was doing something, only for him to turn the tables on me in the worst, most shameful way. The man made me come.
…several times.
It’s all so embarrassing that I’m still scrubbing it from my memory banks and pretending it never happened.
Except it would be a lot easier if I weren’t sharing a bed with him every night. After our confrontation the first night I was under the Valente roof, I concede on the sleeping arrangements. If Cato Valente wants me sleeping in his bed every night as some extra form of torture, then so be it.
I’ll bite. I’ll play along.
The bed is so massive that I’m able to stick to my side and convince myself—at least for a few hours—he doesn’t exist. He’s not in bed with me and I’m not even his wife.
Then a dose of reality kicks in and reminds me otherwise. Something in the form of a shirtless Cato, his dark hair rumpled and his gray sweatpants hanging low at the sharp indent of hisadonis belt. Or something like the weight of his stare whenI’mthe one under his appraisal, the heat of his gaze tracking over every inch of exposed skin.
There’s no denying the sexual tension between us. It’s the giant invisible elephant in our bedroom every night since the wedding, though Cato doesn’t try anything. He doesn’t even touch me.
We barely speak. He’s gone most of the time, waking early in the morning and staying out ’til late in the evening.
I spend the days with the Valente staff, put on a schedule that feels like busywork. Things like a personal trainer four days a week, media training with a public relations specialist, weekly hair, nail, and skincare treatments, and even spots for “leisure time”.
If I try to stray from the tight schedule, I’m course corrected. Steered back into the right direction by whichever staff member is babysitting me that day.
I don’t see much of the other Valentes. Cassian seems to come and go as he pleases, alternating between the large estate and the penthouse he has in Manhattan.
The same can be said about the patriarch of the family. Augusto Valente is apparently in the middle of some important business that occupies most of his time.
The only Valente Idosometimes run into during daylight hours is the matriarch, Allegra.
Cato’s mother returned from her five-day spa retreat looking freshly nipped, tucked, and plumped. Formerly a high-fashion model in Italy, Allegra has legs for miles and a slim shape that’s never changed despite three childbirths.
With dark silky hair and sharp eyes that remind me more of a feline, she’s an undeniably beautiful woman. But she’s also cold and aloof, hardly even introducing herself to me the first time we cross paths in the house.
I find her on accident one morning as I wander into the kitchen and come across her sipping espresso at the counter. She addresses me before I can figure out what to say to her. Whatdoyou say to your mother-in-law when you hate her son and wish the worst for her family?
